


Seeding

by Askellie



Series: Appleverse [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ecto-Genitalia (Undertale), Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Oviposition, Painful Sex, Soul Penetration, Soul Sex, soul play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: Nightmare has a plan to regrow the Tree of Feelings and take back his and Dream's immortality. Cross would do anything for Dream, even if it means being the unfortunate host for the new tree's seedlings.[AKA: Cross gets to birth a new generation of apples for Dream and Nightmare after they fuck his soul.]
Relationships: Cream - Relationship, Crossmare, Dream/Cross, Nightmare/Cross, Nightmare/Cross/Dream, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Appleverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910914
Comments: 16
Kudos: 278
Collections: Undertale Smut





	Seeding

**Author's Note:**

> I was shamelessly encouraged by Twitter to post this even though it's a scene that belongs to a much larger unwritten fic that may never come to be. But the idea of Nightmare and Dream fucking apples into Cross's soul wouldn't leave me alone so here is some (very thin) context for this unabashed porn:
> 
> It starts with Nightmare coming to some very unpleasant realisations about the fact that he simply won't ever win against Dream. The universe won't let him. Even though he has all the apples and all the power, somehow Dream manages to match him all the time -- even though Nightmare is SMARTER and more RUTHLESS and more EXPERIENCED. And for a long time he doesn't get it, until finally he starts to understand that reality and the rules of their multiverse demands a balance. Since Nightmare has all the power, EVERYTHING ELSE just conspires against him constantly to keep him in check. There's nothing he can do to change it. He will never truly best Dream.
> 
> And there's another unfortunate setback. When Dream and Nightmare ate the apples, they lost their immortality, and that effect is compounded in Nightmare who ate so many more of them, essentially trading his lifespan for power. He's doomed to live a much shorter existence than Dream, so not only can he never win, but eventually he's going to lose. All his corruption and negativity will spread out and infect others to keep the balance, so Dream won't 'win' either, but that doesn't exactly make Nightmare feel better!
> 
> So the best he can ever hope for is a stalemate -- an eternal stalemate. And that means giving up his apples and (hopefully) getting his and Dream's immortality back. Which also means restoring the tree of feelings, and getting Dream on his side so they can be (incredibly grudging) equals since that's just how the universe is going to force things to be.
> 
> Nightmare spends a few years preparing. Like hell he's gonna regrow the tree and let some assholes try cut it down or steal from it again. He builds a giant goddamn fortress to protect it, and eventually invites Dream in to talk about his masterful plan about how to release the apples. He's got a perfect, foolproof method. Everything is going to be great.
> 
> It's all about seeds. Seed. Cum. If Nightmare ejaculates into a nice, strong, fertile and willing soul, he can make the apples grow out of it. One at a time, obviously, because otherwise that poor soul would be very unhappy. And since they need to be able to make healthy, untainted apples with just as much potential for positivity as negativity, using his own minions who all have LV (which inhibits feelings) is out. Good thing Dream has such a devoted bodyguard/lover who's all LV-free after getting his code reset. If Nightmare's sacrificing what he cares about most (his own power) for this to work, Dream has to make sacrifices too. Brotherhood is all about being fair.
> 
> TL;DR: Nightmare and Dream reconcile over beautiful brotherly bonding activities such as fucking the same dude and raising a hundred apple-babies together.

Cross’s bathing routine has always been perfunctory and brief. He takes the soldier’s approach to cleanliness, bathing often enough to ensure no one’s going to be offended if they’re caught downwind of him and taking more pride in his uniform than he does the rest of his appearance. It’s a rare marvel to see the pearlescent gleam of his own bones, still faintly steaming from the residual heat of the water. A life on the run means that he’s grown used to toweling down with a damp cloth, or the rare luxury of a lukewarm shower taken as briskly as possible to minimize the length of time he's left unclothed and therefore unprepared in case of an ambush. The over-long soak in Nightmare’s extravagant bathing room has left him feeling almost too-relaxed and faintly sleepy in spite of his growing nervousness.

The lapse in his guard means he didn’t catch whoever must have snuck in to take his discarded clothes, presumably for laundering but for all he knows Nightmare will have them thrown out just to spite him. Just because they have a truce doesn’t mean Nightmare won’t find ways to make his long-held grudge with Cross known.

At least they left behind a robe for him to wear. It’s even white, although unlike the crisp simplicity of his uniform, it feels more like the garb of a bloodless sacrifice. The fabric is unexpectedly soft, draping on his bones with gossamer lightness but clinging tighter than he usually likes. It feels impractical, almost worse than being naked. It’s unfortunate that all the servants are making a point to keep out of his sight because otherwise he’d intimidate one of them into getting him a change of clothes. 

Though he almost forgets his reservations when he meets Dream in the corridor, and the guardian’s eyes lit up at the sight of him. The unabashed appreciation makes Cross feel self-conscious, but the buzzing delight of Dream’s aura quickly smooths away the discordant ripples of his annoyance and embarrassment. Cross usually resists its influence, but this time he lets himself be soothed. There’s more important things to worry about than the state of his wardrobe. 

The wry quirk at the corner of Dream’s mouth voices the compliment he already knows Cross won’t accept. Instead he asks, “Are you ready?”

The words sound more weighted than they usually would, coming from Dream; weighted and formal to match his own new attire. Even the sour realisation of knowing everything they’re wearing is of Nightmare’s choosing, Cross can’t deny that Dream looks resplendent. His tunic is a shade of true gold rather than the playful yellow Cross is more familiar with, and his circlet looks like it’s been freshly burnished. There’s other hints of jewelry too, bracelets on his wrists and a belt made of golden hoops at his waist. Considering Dream is the kind of monster who will show up to royal celebrations with grass-stains on his coat and dirt between his phalanges, it’s as dramatic a shift as Cross’s lack of layers and bulk. 

It also makes a very clear, wordless statement about the disparity of their roles here, as if Cross might ever forget it. Dream looks imperial, a being worthy of worship. Cross looks plain and unremarkable by comparison, but that just makes it all the more remarkable that when Dream extends his hand to Cross with a smile that he’s tried so hard to be  _ worthy _ of. 

“Yes,” he says simply, taking Dream’s offered hand in his own. The simple touch is almost as good as a kiss of approval as Dream’s aura reaches out to envelop him, settling over him like invisible armor. The shield of its protection eases a tautness in Cross’s soul he hadn’t even been aware of.

Dream gives him a sympathetic look. “You’re nervous.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Dream doesn’t pry into anyone’s feelings without asking, but he can’t help being receptive if someone’s broadcasting strongly enough. Cross is usually better at keeping his emotional volume turned down, which means he’s a lot more unsettled than he’s willing to admit to himself. 

“It’s fine,” he says, willing himself to mean it. He doesn’t have  _ determination _ any more, but he’s always been a monster of his word. “I can do this.”

_ For you _ , he doesn’t say aloud, not when Nightmare can probably hear everything in the halls. It’s not a secret, but it’s also not words for unworthy ears, and Dream will know he means it by the soft squeeze of their joined hands.

“I know,” Dream says. His eye-lights are so full and bright they look like miniature suns in his sockets. As the guardian of positive feelings, Dream tends to project a constant ambience of cheer and optimism, but those pale sentiments are nothing compared to the real happiness he can tell Dream is feeling now. For that alone, Cross would be willing to sacrifice his soul a hundred times over.

He lets himself be pulled along in Dream’s enthusiastic wake. Despite the fortresses’ maze-like interior, Dream seems to know where they’re going, probably because all he has to do is lead them to Nightmare. He’s told Cross before that no matter how far apart in the multiverse they are, he and his brother are always aware of each other -- a magnetic pull that gets stronger and more focused with proximity. It’s the reason he and Dream have had to spend so many years on the run, hiding made impossible by the brothers’ connection. 

(And yet despite the fraught difficulty of a life on the run, Cross has spent so many nights watching Dream as he stares blankly into a distant horizon, drawn instinctively towards the pull of his other half. Despite being Dream’s closest companion, there’s parts of the guardian’s experience for which Cross will forever be an outsider.)

Cross has only his own sense of direction to rely on, which tells him that they’re heading inward, close to the centre of the fortress. The hallways are uncomfortably reminiscent of Nightmare’s old castle, cold stone passages soaked in an unsettling ambience of oppression. It gives Cross unsettling flashes of nostalgia, and he can’t help squinting into the shadows, looking for the quicksilver gleam of a smile or a knife waiting to ambush them. Only Dream’s relentless confidence keeps his already bristling nerves steady. 

When Dream leads him through an ornate set of doors he knows they’ve arrived because, unlike the rest of the building, this one is warm and well-lit, better attuned to his and Dream’s comfort than Nightmare’s. He’s both surprised and relieved that there isn’t a bed. Instead the room is dominated by a floor of soft rugs and cushions that look just as comfortable without any of the unnecessary connotations. With a firm grip on Cross’s hand that seems to suggest he has no intention of letting go, Dream approaches the comfortable looking alcove where his brother is already seated, offering a careful greeting. “Brother.”

“Dream,” Nightmare returns, a wry curl to his mouth that says he’s taken notice of his twin’s recent shift in address. It’s not  _ Nightmare _ anymore. Only  _ brother _ , and in rare moments when Dream is feeling overcome with fondness,  _ Night _ . Cross can’t tell if the change is deliberate or unintentional, but either way it’s an open handed offering of Dream’s affection that Nightmare makes a point not to return. His gaze shifts obliquely over to Cross, though instead of a greeting all he offers is an arrogant twist of his grin which Cross counters with his own stoic disdain. 

Surprisingly, Nightmare’s outfit is much simpler than Dream’s. Cross thought he would make the effort to go all out on the drama and theatrics to strike the proper mood of awe-inspiring reverence. Instead, the long-sleeved robe he’s wearing is almost as simple as Cross’s. The delicate fabric drapes over his ebony bones in a flow of silken folds that remind Cross of running water. The only embellishments are swirls of silver and cyan threads along the sleeves, like hints of moonlight in the dark.

(It doesn’t escape Cross’s notice that both their clothing is light and made to be easily discarded. He tries to keep his flush at bay, but the heat on his face tells him he isn’t succeeding.)

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Nightmare offers, gesturing to the sea of pillows with one tentacle, while another cradles a crystalline glass of deep red wine. It’s so unusual to see him so cordial, almost relaxed. The last few years have changed him, so slowly Cross hadn’t even noticed. “Can I offer either of you a drink?”

Cross shakes his head curtly. He wouldn’t accept from Nightmare even if he wasn’t concerned about keeping his thoughts clear for the evening. Dream actually looks consideringly at Nightmare’s glass for a moment before reluctantly declining. Nightmare gives an unconcerned shrug before tossing back the contents of his half-full glass in one forceful swig.

It occurs to Cross for the first time that Nightmare not actually be as unaffected as he seems. For all his imperious aspirations and the overbearing thought he’s put into every aspect of this situation, he’s the one making the biggest sacrifice, giving up the power he’s hoarded for over five hundred years. Not all at once, not tonight, but knowing what he does of Nightmare, it can’t have been an easy decision.

It’s almost as unfathomable as Nightmare allowing himself and Dream to sit so close, so casually, like they haven’t spent half a decade at each other’s throats. It speaks of insurmountable confidence that Nightmare’s invited them near without someone like Killer or Dust to guard his back.

No, wait; he can sense Killer over behind one of the pillars flanking the door. Even though he’s completely hidden from view, Cross berates himself for not catching the low simmer of LV the moment they entered. A mistake like that could have led to a knife in the back, if Killer had been so inclined.

“Killer won’t be watching the proceedings,” Nightmare says. Unlike Dream, Nightmare’s never had any compunctions about delving into the feelings of others, and combined with his uncanny perception it’s a skill that’s almost as good as mind-reading or the eyes of a Judge. “He’s simply on standby in case something goes wrong.”

He leaves unsaid what that might entail. The potential for a last minute betrayal isn’t off the table, but Cross doesn’t want to think about what other possibilities Nightmare might be preparing for. 

Cross gives an aggrieved sigh, but lets it go. He’d really prefer Killer to be gone entirely, but his presence is probably just as much for Nightmare’s piece of mind as it is for any unfortunate contingencies. Trust can only extend so far until both sides have proven themselves, and if Nightmare wants his favourite bodyguard to watch his back so be it.

Cross swallows down his nerves, and without giving himself the opportunity to second-guess himself he pulls back the drape of his robe from his sternum and brings out his soul. “Fine, then. Let’s just get started.”

Nightmare blinks, taken aback by his readiness. Cross smirks inwardly. He and Dream prepared for this, practicing to make sure they knew what to expect, how it would feel. Dream warned him that taking his soul out would be harder in the presence of Nightmare’s aura, and though Cross can feel the weight of his presence more keenly it’s not too much to bear. He’s fought Nightmare at his worst, when his aura is a maelstrom of hatred and terror and misery. Now it’s nothing but a discomforting itch, like the uneasy feeling of being watched too closely. With Killer hovering on alert at the edge of his senses and Dream and Nightmare both blatantly gawking at his soul, it’s not exactly an unjustified feeling.

Nightmare stares at Cross’s soul for a long moment, and hard as he tries Cross can’t fully decipher the meaning of his expression. There’s something fraught and fragile in his eye-light, a hint of some emotion Cross has never seen in him before, but just as quickly it’s locked back down behind a mask of studied indifference. When he turns to Dream he sounds utterly business-like. “Then get him ready for me.”

Dream nods fervently, almost jittering with an excited energy. When he reaches for Cross’s soul, it leaps eagerly towards him, all too happy to be in Dream’s grasp, like it knows where it belongs. When Dream’s fingers touch its surface, there’s a ripple of warmth and love that helps Cross to sink back against the cushions. He meets Dream’s gaze with trust, and Dream beams back at him.

He gets quickly to work, stroking up and down the sides of Cross’s soul, letting the newly materialised construct get used to his touch. Cross keeps his jaw clenched down against any inappropriate noises. He made the decision well in advance that, if at all possible, he’s not going to make a spectacle of himself in front of Nightmare (or Killer, since he’s obviously listening in). Dream gives him a sideways look, a hint of concern radiating from his touch, but surely he didn’t expect Cross to be as unrestrained here as he is in their own bedroom. Cross isn’t an expert in directing his intent, but he clumsily tries to push back his reassurance and encouragement, urging Dream to continue.

The impish grin on Dream’s face is the only warning Cross gets before the first touch of Dream’s tongue on his soul almost makes him break his vow of silence. Dream’s deliberately made it extra wet for better lubrication, his saliva starting to trickle messily over his fingers to help them glide smoothly. With great care he suckles the lower curves of the construct, applying gentle pressure that makes Cross throw his skull back, fighting to blink the bright sparks of light from his sockets. When Dream’s tongue starts to work between the lobes, carefully opening up a seam that’ll give him access to the inner layers of Cross’s soul, he can’t help the tight sound that slips out of him in between ragged, stuttering breaths.

He needs a distraction, something to cool the dazzling blaze of Dream’s touch. With difficulty he turns his head to seek out Nightmare, expecting to find his haughty stare off-putting. Instead he finds the darker Guardian watching them both with a bright, overblown eye-light. His posture is deceptively still, holding motionless as his own tentacles coil over his bones with lascivious enthusiasm. They’ve slithered beneath his clothes, undulating obscenely beneath the loose fabric. Against his better judgment, Cross legs his gaze be drawn down to Nightmare’s lap where he can clearly see the shape of a coil wrapped around a noticeable bulge, the glow of it visible even through the dark fabric. The confronting reality of Nightmare’s arousal hits him unexpectedly hard, and another humiliating sound slips free.

Dream is working his soul open, makes sure the new passage he’s managed to open up is slickened and ready. It belatedly occurs to him that Dream probably won’t be satisfied with his efforts until Cross comes apart entirely, and even though maybe an orgasm could make this easier, it won’t help Cross keep the clear head that he wants. He fumbles for Dream, tugging on his sleeve to divert his attention and manages to gasp out, “Enough. I’m good, Dream, just...d-do it.”

With unexpected reluctance, Dream pulls Cross’s soul away from his mouth. Gold-tinted saliva drips freely down his chin, dripping onto his fine robes, sullying them. He wipes his teeth ineffectively with his wrist before holding out the throbbing, debauched-looking construct to his brother. “Are you ready, Night?”

Wordlessly, Nightmare reaches for the soul. Their fingers touch in the exchange, and something passes between them; a flare of emotions and a heated look that Cross isn’t privy to. Maybe in other circumstances he’d have had a better chance of deciphering it, but between one moment and the next the warm familiarity and protection of Dream’s touch is stripped away and he finds himself suddenly in the daunting unknown of Nightmare’s grip. 

The raw negativity against his core is much stronger with a physical connection. Cross’s breathing starts to come faster in an instinctive flare of panic even though none of this is unexpected. He’s faintly aware of Dream sidling up to him, arms wrapping around Cross in support to hold him through the worst of it.

Nightmare doesn’t move right away. For a moment, Cross thinks he’s just enjoying the pulses of discomfort from Cross’s soul. Then he realises Nightmare is looking at him, waiting for either permission or a demand to stop.

“Do it,” he orders breathlessly. It’s the first command he’s ever given Nightmare, and even more bizarrely, it’s obeyed. Nightmare opens up his robe, much less self-conscious than Cross is. The oily slickness of his corruption coats every part of him, even the inside of his chest and pelvis, but oddly enough, not the magic of his cock which is a cool purple color several shades darker than Cross’s own warm violet. 

A tentacle is still wrapped around the shaft, stroking purposefully around the base, but he’s careful not to let it touch the soul itself which he guides only with his hands. With unprecedented gentleness, he sets Cross’s soul against the head of his cock and slowly presses into the opening left by Dream. Cross feels an unthinkable shudder of something that isn’t the revulsion he’s expecting, watching the golden slick of Dream’s saliva dappling down Nightmare’s shaft, and then he’s struggling to think of anything at all past the excruciating pressure of Nightmare penetrating his soul. 

“Fuck!” he gasps out, losing control for a moment, His body spasms, but Dream is there, wrapped around him, whispering encouragement against his acoustic meatus. They practiced this part too, but it’s simply too much to ever get accustomed to. He clings to Dream, desperately basking in his aura trying not to cry out as Nightmare’s grip tightens on his soul, holding it firmly in place. He’s not thrusting into it -- the construct is too narrow and delicate for that kind of friction no matter how aroused Cross is -- but with the tentacle pumping the length of his shaft Cross can feel the faint pulses signalling the fast approach of Nightmare’s climax. He buries his face in Dream’s collarbone just as it hits, crying out at the sudden burst of searing heat into the cavity. He can feel it coating the inner walls, obscene and filthy and yet somehow disgustingly gratifying.

“Well done,” Dream breathes against him, stroking Cross’s sweaty skull. Cross’s sockets flutter dazedly, feeling flushed and too warm even though there was hardly any exertion on his part. It might just be the foreign heat of Nightmare’s seed inside his soul, making him feel strangely full and satisfied even though he’s neither. His body didn’t reach any sort of peak, but somehow the aftershocks of Nightmare’s orgasm almost feel like his own.

Nightmare pulls out swiftly, fastidiously wiping up where his come is oozing from the seam in Cross’s soul. Cross shudders at the unintentional caress, achingly sensitive, but Nightmare isn’t even paying attention. He’s looking at the dark blots of his seed on the inside of Cross’s soul. Cross has no idea what he’s expecting to see, but from the slight furrow between his sockets he doesn’t seem to have found it.

“How long is this meant to take?” Dream asks. His shoulder is still pressed reassuringly against Cross’s humerus, arm around his waist. Normally their positions are reversed, Dream’s smaller body tucked against the protective support of Cross’s side, but for the moment he’s appreciating the sense of comfort. They’re only half-done, after all, and he’s glad for the moment of respite to try and catch his breath. 

“Not long,” Nightmare says, although he sounds more speculative than certain. He’s prodding at the floating pockets of his come, squeezing the outside of Cross’s soul to try and bring them together in a more cohesive shape. Cross bites down on his tongue, trying not to whimper at the unprecedented manhandling. “I thought his magic was stimulated enough for the roots to take hold, but maybe you need to...ah. Never mind.”

Nightmare’s essence is condensing, transforming from purple to indigo, then darkening again until it’s almost as black as Nightmare’s body. Cross’s breath stutters as he feels it swelling and hardening, the blot in his soul growing larger with each passing second until it’s solid and round with the first hints of a more distinctive apple-like shape. 

“Oh,” Dream breathes like the sound has been punched out of him. Cross looks at him in alarm, but even though there’s hints of tears in Dream’s sockets, he’s smiling so wide it looks like it might hurt. “It’s working.”

“Of course,” Nightmare says, but even he sounds slightly shaky, like he wasn’t quite prepared to see it with his own eyes. He’s stroking the outside of Cross’s soul like he’s trying to encourage the little apple to grow, which it continues to do so at an alarming rate. It’s gone from being the size of a cashew to being as large as a walnut before Cross thinks to ask the question.

“How...big is it going to get?”

Dream and Nightmare exchange a look. Cross has the sudden feeling that neither of them had actually taken that into consideration when they’d discussed letting the new fruit reach maturity in the safe enclosure of his soul. 

“As big as it needs to,” Nightmare says at length, which isn’t the answer Cross wants to hear. Already his soul is starting to feel taut, the apple rapidly growing to press against the inner boundaries of the construct. Even having been stretched and slickened, the pressure of its swelling form is building to an uncomfortable degree. Cross fingers start to dig into Dream’s bones, thoughtlessly tightening with the rising strain.

And the more it grows, the more Cross can feel it; not just its physical shape but its essence. The dark apples are vessels of negativity, and the bigger it gets the more he can feel the icy churn of its influence taking root in him with the same insidious cunning of Nightmare’s aura. The sweat on his bones turns cold, his throat going tight as dark emotions seep into him. Fear is most prominent, though it’s simply reflecting what Cross is feeling most keenly; fear that he’ll fail, fear that everything is about to go wrong, fear that they won’t be able to get the apple out and his soul will split around it like a too-small skin. It’s less a fear for his own life than knowing that Dream would never forgive himself.

“It’s okay, Cross. It’s going to be okay.” Dream’s aura is pouring into him like a waterfall, trying to counter Cross’s growing terror. He’s giving so desperately and quickly, he can’t mask the undercurrent of his own distress in it. “Night…?”

“He’ll be fine,” Nightmare says, but there’s still that lingering hint of uncertainty. This hasn’t been done before. They only have Nightmare’s research and his innate knowledge of the tree to guide them. His fingers are moving deftly over Cross’s soul, trying to stroke and coax the outpouring of negativity into a calmer state, but the surface of the construct has gone too dry. Nightmare’s phalanges rub painfully instead of gliding smoothly. The shape of the soul is starting to distort, bulging unevenly as the size of the apple reaches the confines of its container without any sign of stopping. 

“Hah-!” Cross gasps, eyes rolling back. He thinks his body is seizing, that Dream is trying to hold him down, but all his focus is on the enormity of the apple and the bloated distension of his soul. He can do this. He’s sure he can do this, but it hurts, fuck  _ it hurts _ -!

“We need to take it out, Night!”

“...Fine. Help me.”

There’s a crush of physical weight to match the pressure on his soul. Cross pries open his sockets to suddenly find himself sandwiched between the two brothers. Nightmare is practically on top of him using his tentacles to keep Cross’s convulsing limbs pinned. Dream is at his back, one arm around Cross’s chest to steady him and the other is helping Nightmare coax the opening in his soul to widen, trying to create a big enough passage for the apple to emerge. They’re clearly struggling. The hole is too small, his  _ soul _ is too small. It’s stuck inside him, filling him to bursting. 

There’s no holding back his voice for the sake of dignity. Every painful breath comes out as a sob only because he can’t find enough air to properly scream. He hasn’t felt this kind of pain since he joined with Chara, and it wonders in a distant, morbid way if he’s going to break in half for the second time; if he’ll even survive it again.

“Please, please, come on,” Dream is begging -- not to Cross, but the apple, trying to goad it into moving. He licks his fingers to wet them, trying to re-lubricate the edges of the seam where it’s gripping stubbornly at the apple’s shiny surface. 

“Almost,” Nightmare grunts. He’s managed to curl the tip of a finger in alongside the apple, much to Cross’s disbelief, and is forcing the inner mesh of the construct to bend. The open split in his soul is burning white hot, like a bolt of lightning trying to tear its way through the rest of his core. 

Overlaid with the pain is the compounded intensity of both Nightmare and Dream touching him, their feelings pounding in his skull like a drumbeat. The deafening cacophony of Dream’s _care/hope/devotion_ mingling with Nightmare’s more tempered _apprehension/frustration/fear_. It’s so much, too much, Cross’s voice breaks on a ragged wail and-

The apple slips out of him with a gruesome sounding pop, landing wetly in Dream’s outstretched hand. None of them breath for a moment, waiting for disaster to strike, for Cross’s soul to shatter or the apple to wither. The only thing that happens is that, as it sits in Dream’s palm, the apple slowly starts to change color. Black leeches away, leaving behind a beautiful golden sheen. 

“It worked,” Nightmare says. He’s staring at the apple, wild-eyed and dishevelled. There’s something creeping onto his expression, something desperate and violent that Cross almost mistakes for madness until he realises what it is.

Joy.

“Brother,” Dream says, that one word wrapped up in so much meaning and hope and relief.

_ It is beautiful _ , Cross thinks. The apple is perfectly formed, and as it finishes changing color he can feel it radiating positivity like a miniature version of Dream himself. Beneath the aftermath of exhaustion and agony, he feels strangely proud of it. 

Nightmare is still holding his soul, which still hasn’t quite returned to its proper shape. It looks like an over-stretched balloon, with rumpled creases across its surface, the lobes sagging unevenly. The open passage looks like a glasgow smile, a jagged split that’s almost tearing the soul in half, but Cross can see it’s already starting to close up. There’s no sign of cracking or true damage, just an awful, residual ache that he can feel echoing through the entirety of his body.

One apple down. Swallowing past the sandpaper dryness of his mouth, he asks in a voice thick and shaky with exhaustion, “How many more of these did you say there were?”

Nightmare eyes him with a carefully measuring look, and Cross wonders if it’s only his imagination that there’s a hint of apology in his tone when he replies, “Ninety-nine.”

“Ah,” Cross says faintly. “Great.”

He lets his skull fall back against Dream’s shoulder and decides he’s well and truly earned the right to pass out. 

  
  



End file.
